


Blood Calls For Blood

by reinadefuego



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Disturbing Themes, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fenrir Greyback Is His Own Warning, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Predator/Prey, Sexual Content, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23491105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reinadefuego/pseuds/reinadefuego
Summary: For months, Fenrir has prowled Knockturn Alley, but Sophie isn't going to be taken without a fight, because beneath that pretty face lurks a beast waiting to be unleashed.And that's exactly how he likes it.First, Fenrir has to destroy every shred of her resistance, then he'll corrupt Sophie so completely that she'll be howling his name…up until the moment she sinks her teeth into his throat and silences him forever.
Relationships: Fenrir Greyback/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

"Miss Burke?"

At the sound of his voice, Sophie glanced up from the counter and sighed. She stood up off her stool, giving her visitor the most amicable smile Sophie could muster. "How can I help you today, Mr. Cole?"

He'd asked her out a dozen times or more now, and every time Sophie politely refused, making up some excuse about the shop.

"I was wondering—What I mean to say is—"

Behind Mr. Cole, the doorbell jangled quietly as someone else entered the store. A man clad in black robes with the cloak drawn up to conceal his face. The figure carried himself with a slight hunch as if to disguise his size. Quietly, he moved closer, till he towered over the small, exasperating man at the counter. "The lady isn't interested, now bugger off."

"I beg your pardon?" Cole turned around and immediately froze in place. Eyes cast upwards, he swallowed down the overwhelming fear that seized and held him. The man behind him was broad-shouldered, limbs thick with muscle and scars; a matted beard reached halfway down his neck. On any other day, Mr. Cole might've refuted his suggestion and told the man where to shove his wand. Instead, he lowered his gaze, ducked his head and rushed outside into Knockturn Alley without a word.

"Thank you for your custom." His voice was deep, sarcastic and deadly. A few seconds longer and there was no question he would've killed Cole. "Now don't come back."

Merlin's beard. Sophie sat back down on her stool and rolled her eyes. She should've known he'd be out prowling the streets. It was almost dusk and that meant dinner time, although what he ate (or who) was a question Sophie didn't desire to ask. "You didn't have to do that."

"He's a pithy rat. Why do you even entertain these deluded idiots?"

"Mister Greyback," Sophie began in a somewhat condescending tone, "if you scare off every suitor I have, I'll be single all my life. Now what do you want?"

"Has that shipment of Wolfsbane arrived?"

Fenrir straightened himself out with a groan, rubbing the kinks from his neck and stretching the muscles in his back. He hated slinking around like some pathetic mudblood but people paid less attention to a damaged old man than they did a tall, dangerous werewolf. It was easier that way, although his eyes belied his false appearance. A monster, they announced him to be; one who revelled in blood and death.

"I told you I'd send an owl." Damn him! Was he trying to draw further attention to the shop? She gestured at the heavy drapes that hung over the windows and door with two fingers. The drapes slid across the rods to close themselves, the 'open' sign on the door turned itself around to say 'closed' and a dozen locks slid into place.

The distance between himself and the counter was closed with two strides; he leaned one hand against the thick oak wood then gave his most charming smile, eyes aglow with excitement. "Any old men here?"

"None aside from you."

"Haha," Fenrir chuckled. "Very funny."

He pushed his hood back to reveal fresh scars on his face and neck, scabbed over yet still sticky with blood. Greyback proceeded to slide his cloak off, scrunch it up and toss it near a glass cabinet. After fetching himself a chair and positioning it by the blazing fireplace, he sat and warmed his hands.

While Fenrir made himself comfortable, Sophie tied her hair back and wiped away the few beads of sweat that'd formed on her face. She carried her stool to the hearth, set it down beside him, and sat. Apart from the glow of the fire, the store was dimly lit with candles and oil-burning lanterns. Greyback's face was shadowed in darkness but the reflection of the light in his eyes and on his face transformed his features into some cruel distortion.

"So why are you here then?" asked Sophie. "I thought we had an agreement that you would stay away unless it were an emergency. Grandfather can't afford to have Aurors around here, not now Voldemort's back."

He grunted in response and sank back into the cushioned chair. He knew Burke was a tame fool, but couldn't she feel it? Hadn't she sensed it? "Full moon's coming."

"I'm aware." The very inside of her bones crawled with that knowledge. Her joints ached with the nearing of the moon, and tomorrow, her skin would begin to itch. There was no possible way she couldn't know it was coming. Parchment aside, Sophie had become somewhat of an expert on her moon-induced symptoms after eighteen years.

"Right." He scratched his cheek, kept the pressure light so as to not break the top layer of his skin. The last thing he wanted was an infection or open sore. Of course, all those would heal the moment he transformed, but it was much easier to just avoid damaging himself in the first place. "You should come with us. You might enjoy yourself."

"Who's 'us'?" There was always a catch with Greyback. Some kind of hidden agenda. He believed in werewolf supremacy and all that garbage, along with every other ludicrous idea that Sophie had dismissed throughout her life. his deluded notions of grandeur were almost as ridiculous as believing in prophecies and stories of teenage boys defeating powerful wizards as easily as they breathed. But all of that was beside the point. "Death Eaters? No, thanks."

If she wanted to ruin her life, there were plenty of other ways of doing so. Exposing herself as a werewolf, thus revealing she was 'tainted' to the entire pureblood community, would serve perfectly to condemn her to misery. "I already know what happens to people who get involved with you lot. They either die, or disappear and wind up in Azkaban with the Dementors."

Fenrir scoffed and swivelled his entire body around to face her. His arm shot out from his side, fingers outstretched, reaching for Burke's throat as if to seize her and pul her close but she stood before his nails could graze her skin. Eventually, he'd have her just as he'd had the others, but whether Sophie was alive or dead by the end would be entirely up to her. "It'd be more fun than sitting around here or locking yourself up," he said. Sooner or later, she would stop refusing him. "Werewolves don't get the Mark anyway."

It was all a sad little pantomime in his opinion. Voldemort acted like a pureblood but that oily, rancid scent declared him a mudblood. In truth, the Dark Lord was just as tainted as the rest of them.

"Living is more fun." Sophie pushed his arm to the side. "Freedom too."

"How is this freedom?" Fenrir gestured to the shop. "You've caged yourself."

"I might've been turned into a monster, but that doesn't mean I have to act like one." Being in the wrong time and the wrong place in her last year at Durmstrang had led to this. Waking up in a forest with a mouthful of blood, with no idea of how she'd gotten there. A letter to her grandfather, Caractacus, had caused his reply to begin with four words: _Dear Sophie, I'm sorry._ "I can go where I want, do what I want, without answering to anyone."

"Except him."

Sophie stood, kicking the stool to one side, body pivoting to face the door. The doorbell chimed loudly a moment later. She hadn't heard the lock disengage, yet it was clear the proprietors of Borgin & Burke were back from their supply run. The door then opened and a dozen boxes floated inside, followed by two grizzled old men.

"Your potions will be ready for pickup tomorrow morning," Borgin said, fixing Greyback with a hard stare. "If you wouldn't mind leaving, we have business to attend to."

"Tomorrow then." Fenrir begrudgingly lifted himself off the chair and fetched his cloak, tossing it over himself. "I'll be here at dawn."

A frustrated growl escaped Sophie's throat as Greyback stalked outside, flipping his hood up as he went. Once he was outside she flicked her fingers at the door, the spell no more than a murmur on her lips. The door then slammed shut, the locks sliding into place, and a heavy stone was pushed across the floor to block it from opening again.

Caractacus immediately drew his wand from his robes and pointed it at her. "You. How many times have I told you not to lock that door?" he said. "It only takes one moment for him to kill you, Sophie. You left yourself with no escape."

"Oh leave her be, Carrot," Borgin intervened. The use of the older Burke's nickname earned him a jab in the ribs from Caractacus' wand. "She's plenty old enough to deal with that mangy mutt."

"What did he want then, eh?" Caractacus hobbled towards her while waving his wand at the boxes. They stacked themselves atop a corner bench, ready to be carefully unpacked later.

"The same as always," Sophie said. She didn't care how many of those ingrates Voldemort had working for him, Sophie wasn't about to up and join them. Borgin & Burkes already toed the line just by continuing to be in business: they weren't located in Diagon Alley, nor were their customers self-respecting Aurors with the Minister's stamp of approval. By handling items with provenances connected to the darker side of wizardry, they risked more than just their reputations. Since the law had made it clear how they dealt with such things, and Voldemort's subsequent rise at the Triwizard Tournament, there'd been a feeling in Knockturn Alley that they were now on thin ice. "But it doesn't matter."

"And what do _you_ want then?" asked Caractacus. "You've been here ten years, child. Isn't it time you moved on?"

Her lips twisted into a scowl. Every time they had this conversation, it was about the same damned old thing. Get out of the shop, get yourself a life and a house. "If I wanted a husband or wife, I'd find one, Granddad. I'm not the settling down type."

Truthfully, what she wanted was to find a cure for lycanthropy. One that didn't involve dying. While the perks of being a werewolf were nice, the cons far outweighed the pros. And freeing herself from this curse would lift more than just the weight of society's disapproval from her shoulders.

"Besides," Sophie began, "who else is going to keep you from being caught out? Everyone thinks you're dead."

Caractacus gave a resigned sigh and lowered himself onto the chair by the fireplace. "He's going to come back, Sophie."

"I know. We're the only supplier of wolfsbane potions a man like him can go to."

"You know what I mean, child."

With both hands, Sophie tugged the hood of her cloak up to conceal her face. She walked toward the door and disapparated in an instant, leaving behind only a loud echoing _crack_ and an irritated old man.

She apparated into one of the nearby alleys then adjusted her robes, rolling her sleeves up past her elbows to free her hands. After turning her head both ways and checking there was no one within her line of sight, Sophie approached a small wooden barrel. It rested against the north wall, plain and unassuming, but the brown paper package she fetched from within it was not.

"Is that dinner?" Fenrir's voice was low and deep, with an underlying growl to it. Sophie couldn't help but hear the unspoken threat that lingered on his lips. His tone also sent a shiver down her spine and stirred feelings she fought hard to suppress. "Smells rotten."

"No more than you."

"Funny." Burke had looked right at him, but the spell he'd cast had allowed him to go unnoticed by distracted eyes. He stepped forward, lips curling up into a wicked grin as he approached, revealing sharp fang-like teeth and a thick scarred tongue. Fenrir's irises shimmered gold in the darkened alleyway, an unsettling and unnerving sight for most any wizard he cornered these days. "Have you come out to play?"

"No." Sophie tucked the package into one of her pockets and walked past him, making sure to strike him with her shoulder. It felt like hitting a wall and no doubt hurt her more than it did him, yet she had no inclination to stop moving. "I don't think you'd like the kinds of games I play."

He allowed her to pass without incident and watched her stroll in the direction of Diagon Alley. Finally, he said, "What games would those be?"

"The ones where I find you after the full moon—" Burke didn't look back. She just kept on walking, eyes forward and hands at the ready. "—and rip your heart out of your chest."

"Ooh." Fenrir's body trembled with amusement as he chuckled. He reached up and dragged his overgrown nails along the bricks, leaving five long scratch marks in them. "Sounds like a bloody good time. Shall I see you at dawn then?"

"No." Her heart rate was beginning to quicken, the heaviness of her breathing increasing with it; if she looked in a mirror, would her pupils be as wide as dinner plates? "Your potions will be left by the back door."

"Pity." For a moment, there was a scent in the air. Bitter, like adrenaline, but sharp too. Oh, Burke was excited. Well so was he. "I was looking forward to you killing me."


	2. Chapter 2

"Firebrandy, please, Tom."

Sophie sat in a dimly lit corner of the Leaky Cauldron, legs stretched out beneath the table, the package concealed in her robes. In this day and age, the pub was relatively busy for an afternoon. There weren't near enough people for tables to be unavailable, but nor were there so few that anyone would notice yet another witch amongst the crowd. Seated on the border between the worlds of muggles and wizards, the Leaky Cauldron was the one establishment where someone such as herself could conduct business without interference.

There was a surprisingly good market for 'illegal' goods now, outside of the antiques and such that they traded in at Borgin and Burkes. Certain peoples had grown interested in certain objects of a certain inclination, although no one wanted to be perceived as _having_ such an interest. Besides, Aurors were too busy hunting for known Death Eaters, searching for anyone who bore the Dark Mark, and thus not paying quite as much attention as they once had to the underground market.

Once the glass of firebrandy was set down, Sophie adjusted her stance, sat upright, and gulped down half the liquor without hesitation. Better to get this over with now than delay it any longer.

A few minutes passed in silence before the chair opposite her was suddenly slid back and a thin, ragged-looking man in tattered robes sat down. Beneath his hooded cloak, his brown hair and short beard were dishevelled. However, the fire in his eyes belied his appearance.

"Luna," the man murmured, giving a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement. "Payment in full," he held a small purse of coins out beneath the table, "as agreed."

Sophie slid the package free from her robes and exchanged it for the purse. "It finished brewing last night."

"Thank you." He slipped it into a pocket concealed amongst his robes. No one looked at him, nor he at them. It was best, he found, to avoid catching people's eyes. The less they noticed about him, the better.

Before the man could stand, she grabbed his wrist, holding him there. Sophie looked up, eyes almost shining like gold as they reflected the candlelight. Damn her for not choosing a side out of fear of reprisal but he needed to know. With the news all over the Daily Prophet and the truth free, witches and wizards were beginning to draw lines in the sand. "Greyback was here earlier," she spoke quietly. "I think he's recruiting."

Her acquaintance froze. "Recruiting?"

"Yes."

If Greyback was gathering people like himself, the implication was one he didn't want to think about. Was Fenrir finally building the army he'd always desired? Perhaps planning an attack on wizardkind, attempting to cull the herd of undesirables? Most werewolves lived on the outskirts of society and likely wouldn't bat an eyelid at the idea of banding together to kill those who hated them. "That is troubling news indeed."

She inclined her head in agreement and released his wrist, standing and stepping away from the table. Sophie drank the rest of her brandy and left payment next to the glass. "I guess I should say it's good to see you alive, Moony."

It was a strange alias for a strange man, but Sophie had acceded to his wish that she address him as such. She certainly wasn't about to pick a fight over something as trivial as a name. The irony of it hadn't been lost on her either.

"And you. You'll keep an ear to the ground? Let me know if something happens?"

"I'll try."

There was no guarantee she'd be alive in a month's time, but then there wasn't one that said Sophie would survive beyond tomorrow morning either. The full moon was drawing closer with every minute that passed. Her skin now itched furiously on the inside — a day early; the transformation was going to be rough — and no matter how many hot baths she took, Sophie would be unable to soothe the ache within her bones.

"Thank you."

As he took the door that led out to Charing Cross Road, Sophie returned to Diagon Alley. Fortescue's was boarded up, something she hadn't noticed last week, and Ollivander's was empty. No wands, no wandmaker — for as long as Sophie could remember, the old man had always been there. As a toddler, Sophie had stared through the window and clapped at the sight of a wand choosing its wizard. Now the shop felt like nothing more than a hollow shell, all its mystery and awe-inspiring magic gone.

The most recent addition to the Alley, run by two boys who couldn't be more than seventeen at most, was a joke store, and even now was filled with young children laughing and hassling one or another of their parents. Sophie smiled fondly, eyes crinkling at the corners, and kept on walking as the sounds of excitement echoed behind her. It was a marked change compared to three days ago, yet in another hour or two when dusk fell, the laughter would cease.

Posters from the Ministry had been stuck to every window. Security advice, reminders to not travel after dark, and monotone photographs of _them_ were plastered throughout the shops. That and the persistent mentions of Voldemort in the Daily Prophet had all served to create a somber mood among the shopkeepers and greater community.

Knockturn Alley was not far away now, Sophie realised. Just up ahead to the left. She'd return to the flat above Borgin and Burkes, eat a hearty dinner and likely fall asleep by the fire. Eventually Caractacus would wake her, press her to climb into bed. Sophie would do so, albeit reluctantly, and toss and turn till she found herself returning to the heavy oak chair and the warmth of open flames.

At least that was her plan. As Sophie turned her head to glance over her shoulder, she noticed a cloaked and hunched figure walking at a distance behind her. It wasn't Tom, or anyone else she recognised from afar. A quick sniff hinted at a myriad of scents including dirt, sweat and blood.

"Merlin's beard," she growled out. When was he going to quit? Had he not seen the wanted posters, the photographs? If anyone saw him, recognised him for who he was, and connected her with him, the Aurors would be on her faster than she could disapparate. "What do you want now?"

The hunched figure ducked into a shop to their right once Sophie glanced back again, turning the corner into Knockturn Alley. Borgin and Burkes was up ahead, past the store with its poisonous candles (as beautifully shaped as they were deadly) and a small hovel that'd once been home to an old witch selling 'rare ingredients'.

Bell chiming above her head, Sophie entered the store and locked the door behind her. Even now, she couldn't get the stench out of her nose. If the figure _had_ been Greyback, he was all but giving himself away. The least he could do was take a dip in a river, or a bath, and wash the grime off. While he was at it, he could cut those fingernails, attend a barber, perhaps even learn some basic manners.

Unlike the werewolves who lived on the outskirts of society, who hunted for their food (or so Sophie'd been told) while avoiding contact with 'regular' wizards, Greyback had no excuse to act like… _that_.

"Well go on then." Raised voices came from upstairs. Despite the thickness of the floorboards, they did little to muffle noise. "You took that lot, might as well take this one too!"

"S'pose I will."

She shook her head, took the rear staircase up to the flat, and paid no more attention to the two old argumentative wizards hunched over a chess board than was necessary. "Granddad, if you keep leaving yourself open—"

"I didn't leave myself open. _He_ cheated."

"Okay." Sophie held her hands up in mock surrender. Despite his appearance, Borgin was a wily one. Manipulative and sneaky to boot, it was little wonder he was still alive. Then again, he cowed in the face of threats and authority, playing the weasel. It worked when he was dealing with purebloods like the Malfoys, but almost everyone else saw it for the charade it was. As she made her way into the kitchen, Sophie called out, "Take Borgin's knight next and you'll have him in three moves!"

"Now who's cheating?"

Caractacus gave a loud 'harrumph' and turned to look over the back of his chair. "Sweetheart," he began. She poked her head out of the doorway and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, don't give me that face. This isn't about marriage."

"Granddad?" she said warily. Sophie checked that the knives were still slicing up onions and mushrooms then returned her attention to Caractacus. "What is it?"

"I was thinking you might want to leave a day early."

Leaving a day early wasn't ideal. Sophie had made plans for tomorrow; she'd wanted to meet with the witch who ran Twilfitt and Tatting's to see about custom-made robes, and find where she could purchase a cask of firebrandy to take with her so as to drink her way into unconsciousness. However, Caractacus wouldn't have suggested it if he didn't think it a necessary step.

"Okay," she said, a reluctant tone to her voice. "I'll pack after dinner."

Her grandfather coughed.

 _Oh, come on!_ "You want me to go now?"

"I took the luxury of packing a bag for you."

He'd done what? She was well beyond the age of needing him to do anything for her. If this was some ploy to get her out of the shop, he could very well just say so. "What's going on, Granddad?"

"Igor Karkaroff is dead. They found him in a shack, with the Dark Mark above it."

Karkaroff? That name sounded familiar but she couldn't place it. It was certainly Slavic-sounding, not that that helped any. Durmstrang had been full of students from all over Eastern Europe. "What about him? We've nothing to do with Death Eaters, or Voldemort."

"Not anymore."

"What are you saying?" When Voldemort had fallen, she'd been at school. Sophie had done her best to ignore the ongoing political situation at the time — sticking her head in the sand wasn't an easy thing to do with the choosing of sides going on around her — but the Dark Arts lessons had certainly embraced it. "Mum and Dad weren't supporters, were they?"

"No. Sophie, do you remember that story I told you about the assistant we hired? The one who disappeared? That was the boy who—"

"I still don't see how this has anything to do with me."

"Voldemort worked in this shop! He knows what we have in our vault, what we'll never sell. If he ever comes here, it will more than likely be because he wants to kill me. There are few people alive who know the name he used before his rise and I'm one of them."

He was serious. Voldemort had worked in this shop, their shop, the shop that'd been in her family going on fifty years or more. The shop she planned on running herself one day once the titular owners had quit or died (a day Sophie didn't want to think about).

"And I'd die defending you," Sophie began, "because no matter how much I tried, the only person who could kill him is that boy."

"Presuming he allowed you to die. Five minutes in a room with him and he'd know the name of the puffskein that slept in your bed when you were four, how old you were when you cast your first spell, and that taking away your wand would do nothing to stop you. Voldemort is a legilimens on a level I've never seen before."

"So that's why you want me to leave? What ifs and maybes? Paranoia?"

It was as ridiculous an excuse as any, but Sophie could see the concern in his eyes. She shook her head and turned around, returning to the kitchen. The knives had stopped cutting and sat idle on the board; the mushrooms and onions no longer resembled anything close to their original state.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes. No matter how tight she squeezed her eyelids shut, it wouldn't stop them coming. If he really thought there was a threat, why not leave himself? Why send her away?

"Fine." Sophie swept her hand towards the chopping board. The knives, the board and everything on it was thrown into the sink as if she'd picked them up herself. "Goodbye, Mr. Burke. Mr. Borgin."

"The situation's only going to get worse before it gets better," Borgin muttered, finally breaking his silence as he looked up from the chess board. "The entire world knows it, and we're all hedging our bets on a child who hasn't so much as graduated Hogwarts yet."

Caractacus grumbled in agreement then returned his attention to the game. "Think I'll just take your knight."


	3. Chapter 3

"Going somewhere?"

He leaned against the brick wall, all arrogance and intrigue. His canines protruded sharply over his bottom lip, nostrils flaring as he sniffed. Fenrir tilted his head to one side, arms crossed over his broad chest, and gave Sophie his most charming debonair-like smile.

With a mouth full of curved fangs, his beard, and the heavily scarred muscle of his neck on display, Fenrir's attempt seemed to have the complete opposite effect to what he'd intended. Her left fingers lifted from the bag handle — lips curling upwards as Sophie gave him a smile; he liked that wicked light in her eyes — and Fenrir found himself suddenly pushed from the side, hurled head over heels down the alley.

Fenrir groaned when his body finally flopped against the rear step of one of the other shops. He grabbed ahold of a railing and hauled himself to his feet. "What the hell was that for?" Greyback snarled, brushing the dust off his robes. "Normally you just _threaten_ me."

"Come here again and I'll do much more than toss you away like rubbish." Sophie stalked toward him, wand drawn, and pressed it firmly against his Adams's apple. "Do you have any idea how many Aurors are looking for you and your friends? It's hard enough staying afloat when no one wants to be seen as having the slightest interest in the Dark Arts. Now you're hanging around here."

She would've said 'like a bad smell' but Fenrir carried with him a more literal one. Sophie scrunched her nose up, glaring at him from beneath the hood of her cloak. She should've been halfway across Europe by now. Instead, she was dealing with this…disgusting, brutish, overbearing, maddening bastard again.

"You might not have the Mark," Sophie continued, "but you have a reputation and that draws just as much attention."

"And you have no home." Fenrir looked down at the bag she carried. By the look of things, she'd finally stopped being housekept and muzzled. _Interesting._ "Kicked you out, did he? Doesn't want a vicious werewolf in the flat who'd soon as kill him if he looked at her wrong? Wizards are all the same, Miss Burke. They only want you when you're a pup, easily tamed and leashed, but once the fangs come in and you learn to bite worse than you bark, they put the boot to you and throw you aside."

Her top lip curled back in a half-snarl. Sometimes the behaviours of her two forms crossed into one another; she just couldn't help it. It certainly didn't look good since Sophie still maintained a facade of being normal, but there were times when she wasn't quite sure which body she was inhabiting. And moments like this, that made her anger flare up like steam rising from a boiling kettle, only served to blur the divide further.

"Well you can thank your master for that. He's the one making things difficult."

Difficult? Had Burke not seen the anti-werewolf legislation, the one that pushed them further toward the fringes of society? Unemployed, broke, struggling to live. Werewolves were being left to starve and die out in the forests, surviving on whatever they could kill, animal or otherwise. Voldemort was the one who'd fix all that. "Sometimes I wonder if you really are a werewolf, or just an Animagus, pretending to be one of us."

Sophie dropped her bag and wand only to push her cloak aside with one hand, and reach for the hem of her shirt with the other. She lifted it, exposing the jagged, broken lines that marred the left side of her stomach and continued beneath her pants. There was no need to show him the scars on her back, she decided. While the wounds had closed, the scars themselves looked as fresh as the day they'd formed. It was as if whoever had bitten Sophie tore into her side and ripped her open, slicing her flesh into ribbons, puncturing holes with their teeth as they went.

"Are these real enough?"

Fenrir said nothing. Words wouldn't have sufficed anyway, and what could he say? The scars made her look like a mangled doll; it was as sure a sign as any that Burke shouldn't have even been alive. Some of them looked different to the others, as if there'd been two or more sets of teeth sinking into her. He stepped forward, slowly reached out his hand to touch them. Oddly, she didn't shy away from him.

He traced the lines with his fingertips, frowning. Three wolves, if he had to guess. They felt different. The larger scars were rough and thick from canines, some thinner and sharp at the ends, others short and harried. It didn't match werewolf behaviours as he knew them. "How did you survive?"

"I transformed that night, I guess." Sophie dropped her shirt and fixed her cloak, concealing her marred skin. She didn't remember the attack, only that her entire body had felt as if it were being consumed by flames. A hot, burning sensation that seared through her, overwhelmed her. The longer she lay there, staring up at the moon, the stronger it got. After she passed out, it was anyone's guess as to what'd happened. "Always thought the forests around Durmstrang were safe. We could all handle ourselves so there was no reason to fear what lurked within."

Durmstrang? That explained the oddity of it all. Bad things happened there. Death Eaters for teachers, a focus on the Dark Arts in the curriculum. It was little wonder that hers was one of the stranger attacks he'd heard about. Most bitten werewolves transformed during the following full moon, not the ongoing one, but if there'd been enough contamination — enough transfer of whatever it was that made a werewolf — then Fenrir imagined it just might rapidly overwhelm the victim's body.

"Huh. Figures you'd be some elite snob."

Elite? Hardly. Her parents had just wanted to put some distance between her and any threats to their only child. "It does, doesn't it? Now if you'll excuse me—"

"The full moon is in two days. That's hardly enough time to move your things from here and make certain the charms will hold."

"I don't transform here." Sophie picked up her bag and wand, tucking the latter into her pocket. "How stupid do you think I am?"

If she turned into a werewolf here in Knockturn Alley, where Aurors were almost constantly within earshot, it'd be tantamount to handing herself over to the Dementors for a kiss. She proceeded to close her eyes, focused on calming herself. Her body knew the drill by now — slow heart, empty mind, visualise. There was only her lounge room, the worn spot on the rug where she apparated every time. The blazing fire. Everything warm and soft, welcoming her home.

Pressure surrounded her body, squeezing her chest. She didn't feel something grab her arm or the weight of whatever had attached itself to her, only the sensation of becoming nothing.

And then she was there: intact, alive and home. That's when the fingers on her arm finally registered with her brain and the bag in Sophie's hand dropped to the floor with a thud. She noticed the yellow nails first, then the hairy arm, and finally the rest of him standing next to her.

Oh, no. He hadn't. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. Greyback wasn't there. Not really. Not standing and smiling at her as if this were exactly what he'd wanted.

"You—" Sophie tugged her arm free, looking him up and down. He'd grabbed ahold of her before she'd finished disapparating, clung to her like a leech. She shoved him with both hands, pushing him in the direction of the door. "Get out!"

"Nice house." His feet slid back only half an inch as Fenrir looked around. Thick wool blankets were folded on every seat, the lounge too. Large black rugs spread out beneath his feet covered the floorboards. A fire roared in the hearth serving to fill the room with heat. In one corner sat a dining table, adjacent to a small kitchen. There were no extra rooms beyond the bathroom, nor any sign of a bed. It had to be the most lacklustre home he'd seen besides his own. "Very posh," he said. "Very you."

Fenrir stepped around her, walked toward the lounge and sat himself down. He wondered where they were — Europe, he presumed — and just how long it would take to reach civilisation from here. There were no windows too, he realised, only a door with a dozen locks.

"Mistress!" A screech came from behind Greyback as something flung itself across the room. It was a house-elf, he noted, when the creature landed on the rug in front of him. Its purple robes reached just below its knees, bony brown legs sticking out awkwardly beneath the hem. Hands clutched together, the house-elf swayed from side to side as if it couldn't contain its excitement. "Have you come to visit Mili?"

"You have one of them too?" Fenrir said, snorting in derision. Of course she did. Purebloods couldn't do anything for themselves. Living in manors with their house-elves and hired help, lording their money over others.

"No." Had he not heard her? This was her home, not a pub. Either he left through the front door or she dropped him in the ocean. "She's not mine."

"Mili could be!"

" _Mili_ is free to go where she pleases." The last thing Sophie needed was attachments. Keeping her distance from others, her head down, and her heart encased in ice, meant she survived. Love wasn't something she could afford to get involved in. "And to work for whom she pleases."

"But Mistress pays Mili!" The house-elf threw herself at Sophie's legs, hugging her. "Mistress gives Mili _clothes_."

"You give that thing money?"

"I found her injured a couple years ago," she lied. From afar, Mili had looked like a hairless fawn with her legs sticking out from beneath a pile of leaves. It was only after she washed the blood and gore off her that Sophie noticed those large bat-like ears. Why there was a house-elf in the forests around Durmstrang, she didn't know, but smuggling Mili into the dorms had been rather easy. Sophie figured she'd come from the school's kitchens and been attacked. Part of her always hoped it hadn't been by her own hand. "Now get out of my home, Greyback!"

"Actually, I think I'll—" Mili snapped her fingers and Fenrir let out a shout. The feeling of his body being plucked off the couch and thrown through a now-open doorway was disorienting. He landed in a grassy field that surrounded the building, bright red and yellow flowers interspersed amongst trees and bushes. In the distance, snow-capped mountains rose high above the cottage. "Oi! Don't you ever do that again, you little—"

"Your master is fifteen hundred miles west," Sophie shouted from inside the house. "So why don't you go run home like a loyal mutt and ask him to scratch behind your ears!"

Mili, still clinging to her leg, gave a 'hmph' and the door swung shut. Fenrir growled, braced one hand against the ground and pushed himself up into a sitting position. In two days, the transformation would be upon them. Burke was now isolated, vulnerable and alone, except for the elf, and oh, wouldn't he enjoy killing it? Charms and chains could be broken, walls destroyed. Unleashing her once she transformed would be as easy as breathing. All he had to do now was wait.

"Mili?" Sophie glanced down at her companion as she seated herself on the lounge. She crinkled her nose at the lingering scent of death in the air and dug her fingers into the cushions. "You don't need to come downstairs with me this time."

The house-elf shook her head, ears flapping. "But Mistress will hurt herself!"

"I'll be fine. It's your magic that keeps me bound, after all."

"Mili cannot abandon her mistress. No, no, no," she wailed, throwing her arms forward and burying her head in Sophie's lap. "If she did, Mili would not be carrying out the task Mistress assigned her."

With a sigh, she lifted Mili by the waist, standing her up. "You've helped me to live, Mili. I will not ask you to do more than that."

"Does Mistress want to leave?" Mili's top lip quivered as if she were about to burst into tears, body trembling in Sophie's hands. "Is Mistress going to abandon Mili? Mili does not want to go back there! Please do not take Mili back, Mistress!"

"No, I won't send you back, Mili, but you can't remain here with me. It's too dangerous." Sobs filled her ears while Mili struggled to break free of her grasp. Sophie kept her grip tight but not quite hard enough to leave a bruise. _Damn it._ If the house-elf wouldn't willingly leave, she'd order her to. "Mili, listen," she began loudly, raising her voice above the sound of the house-elf's crying. "There is a shop in Knockturn Alley called Borgin and Burkes. You will go there now and tell Master Caractacus Burke that you have been sent by me, and then you will do whatever he tells you. You will wait for me there, understand? If Mr. Borgin asks you a question, you tell him nothing, and under no circumstances will you do anything for _him_."

"Mistress is not going to abandon Mili?" The house-elf sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Mistress wants Mili to wait for her at Borgin and Burkes," she said slowly, wriggling free of Sophie's grasp. "Yes, Mili will wait! Mili will tell Master Burke that Mistress has sent her."

Finally, the house-elf disapparated in her lap. Sophie let out a sigh and flopped back against the lounge, covering her face with her hands. Why did she have to be such a sucker for punishment? She'd only wanted to help the house-elf and ease her pain, not gain a friend. Looking back at it, though, the act of sympathy hadn't cost her much.

"You know I'd much rather it be you scratching me behind the ears." Fenrir's voice came from the other side of the door. He'd taken on a low, heated tone that stirred things inside her and sent a shiver down Sophie's spine. "Or scratching my other itch. What do you think, _Mistress_? Are you going to come out and play?"


	4. Chapter 4

The upholstery shredded beneath her fingers, nails digging deeper with each flex of her hands. Sophie had drawn her legs up under her in a crouch while her arms were stretched straight, resting near the edge of the cushion, and her head was tilted back. Without Mili, there was nothing to ground her. Nothing to stop the lines between forms from blurring completely. Her mind was nothing more than an echo chamber as Sophie sat, staring blankly at the roof. Greyback's words, her grandfather's, and the events of the past few hours bounced back and forth in her head, all playing on repeat like a damaged howler.

_They only want you when you're a pup, easily tamed and leashed._

Greyback was wrong in that respect. They didn't want werewolves at all. Unlike centaurs and other so-called magical beasts, they had no self-awareness while in that monstrous form and thus couldn't be utilised by the Ministry. Some benefit or another could be gained by keeping most dangerous creatures, but not werewolves, unless you considered death to be one.

"You've gone quiet." Fenrir pressed his ear to the door, listening to the faint sound of steady breathing. Hours had passed since the house-elf had thrown him out. The sky was beginning to turn a bruise-like purple as dusk set in, and the faux full moon would soon rise as well. "Planning an ambush, are you? Waiting to see if I leave?" he called out. "You're the one that brought me here, Burke. Seems like the perfect place for us to spend the full moon."

A growl rumbled in the base of her throat, vibrations rolling down into her chest till it felt like her entire body were trembling from them. _I don't think you'd like the kinds of games I play._ Sophie stood upright then stepped off the couch, walked on the balls of her feet towards the door. _The ones where I find you…rip your heart out of your chest._

It wasn't a particularly hard feat, in fact. All you had to do was shatter bone, break through flesh, grip the heart and pull, presuming one preferred the physical experience. Else there was always magic. Whether Accio would work was debatable but given enough time spent searching through books, a spell to separate someone from their body parts had to be found sooner or later.

There was no problem magic couldn't solve, bar maths.

And him.

On the other side of the door, Fenrir's nostrils flared. The scent of murderous intent was ripe in the air, and if he listened hard enough, Greyback could hear the rustle of rugs being stepped on. He disapparated in a heartbeat and reappeared in the field filled with flowers, a fair distance from the house. In the seconds it took him to apparate, the entire structure was flung free. The jamb, the locks, the door itself, were all hurled in his previous direction.

"Have you finally come out to play then?" Fenrir grinned. Burke stalked out of the house, wand in hand, eyes searching her surroundings for him. He gave a wave of his fingers, breathing deeply, inhaling the heady mix of violence and hatred. "Oh, now you're just teasing me."

"I told you to leave." How much did a werewolf's heart sell for on the black market, Sophie wondered, and what could it be used for? Better yet, how much of a reward was there for his head? If she was going to kill him, Sophie figured she might as well earn a few galleons from it. "It seems you didn't hear me."

"I don't intend to." Were Burke anyone else, Fenrir might've felt a chill from the unbridled rage in her eyes. Instead, there was a stirring of excitement inside him. Most ladies found his attentions simultaneously disturbing and charming. Sophie, however, seemed to only view them as a nuisance. "You can try and kill me if you like, but it won't change anything. Your wolf wants to run free and I'm going to help it."

Oh, he wasn't one of those types, was he? They didn't have 'wolves' or inner selves, or any of the other garbage that some of their kind spouted. There was only a werewolf and the line that divided their two physical forms; shared between them was one mind and one body. "Do us both a favour and shut up."

A streak of red light exploded from the end of Burke's wand. Fenrir threw up a shield with seconds to spare, deflecting the curse away from him. "You don't believe the old stories?"

"That's all they are, Greyback. Stories." Sophie flicked her wand and the ground at his feet exploded. Dirt clods flew up into the air, grass and flowers torn to shreds. Whoops. Maybe her aim was a little rusty, or she simply needed to get used to wielding a wand again. "Lies that wizards tell themselves so they can bury their heads in the sand and pretend they're not monsters."

He disapparated, apparated behind her, only for Burke to disapparate herself. Fenrir turned around, thrusting his wand forward, hoping to catch her on the fly. All he found was air. "Then what do you tell yourself?"

"That I'm dangerous; a monster." _And I will never condemn someone to live as I have._ Each Crucio was more powerful than the one it followed, the strength of her spells attuned to her intent. Sophie truly wanted to hurt him, kill him, and he was doing nothing…or so she thought.

Suddenly he was there in front of her, knocking her wand from her hand. It fell amidst the mass of marigolds that surrounded their feet, concealed to the naked eye. An amused smile crossed his face as his long fingers wrapped around her throat. "A monster?" Fenrir laughed, claws scraping over her skin. "Mayhaps you're dangerous, Miss Burke, but 'monster' is an exaggeration, wouldn't you say? You're no more than a temperamental little—"

Six syllables. That was all she needed to speak to kill him. Though in the time it would take her to say them, or think them, it was more than likely Greyback would disapparate. No. Better to keep it short and sweet.

"Crucio," she hissed, jabbing her fingers against his ribs. There was a tingling, electric surge through her right arm, a swell of energy that rippled through her before it was channeled and unleashed. Greyback's limbs contorted, knees buckling beneath him, body convulsing in jerks and twitches. The look on his face, disturbing as it was, was one of sadistic pleasure. Of course Fenrir was enjoying himself.

"Is that all?" he asked when the pain faded, staring up at Sophie from where he now lay sprawled on the ground. "You're still a few decades shy of besting the Dark Lord in terms of torture, Burke. Put a little more hatred into it. Take all that pent-up rage and unleash it."

Outside of killing him, what would it take to make his maddening chatter cease? She planted her boot on his chest and pressed down, fists clenched and teeth grit. "You really are a disgusting beast. Wanted by Aurors, enslaved by Voldemort—"

"Says the woman who chains herself every full moon and denies what she is."

"At least I'm free!" Could he say the same? Greyback had signed himself up to be Voldemort's pet, just as so many others had. Once you were his, there was no out. No walking away. "I answer to no one. I'm bound to no one. But you? You're the one wrapped around Voldemort's little finger, always running to his master when he calls. I wonder, do you sleep next to his bed like a good dog? Does he feed you the scraps from his plate?"

Fenrir snarled, catching her wrist and throwing her off-balance. He pulled her down, sending her crashing to the ground, only to push himself up, swing his right leg over her waist and straddle her. All of his bulk came to rest on her, and unless Burke proved to be stronger than expected, he had her pinned. "I am no one's dog."

"Oh? You certainly smell like one." He was heavier than expected. A crushing weight on her stomach and hips. If Sophie didn't get him off her soon, something was going to burst. The pressure itself was a persistent distraction that kept her from consciously focusing her magic. Without her wand or some form of relief, this situation wasn't going to end well. "You act like one too, always skulking around with your tail between your legs."

"And now you're between them with no house-elf to save you." He chuckled. The grin on his face was wide, eyes lit with excitement. Fenrir gripped both her wrists with one hand, restraining them. "If you wanted it rough, all you had to do was ask. I'd be more than happy to oblige."

As appealing as that sounded — heat pooled in her gut, the rest of her body responding in turn — he was the last wizard on Earth she'd ever consider being involved with. Sophie scrunched up her nose, turning her head to look up at him. She did need to distract him, give herself an opportunity to focus; unlike before, her head wasn't clear anymore. "Maybe if you took a bath and stopped playing in the garbage, I'd consider it."

Fenrir reached for her chin with his free hand, grasping it gently. He leaned down, the scent of arousal mingling with her anger, only to press his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. Well, wasn't that intriguing? Burke did want to play. It'd only taken him dragging the words out of her for Sophie to acknowledge her interest. "Tell me—"

The second he lifted his head, she bit into his neck. Her teeth tore through skin and muscle, the taste as foul as his stench. She tried to ignore the salty, delicious burst of blood in her mouth and dig her teeth in deeper, even as Greyback reeled back, releasing her wrists to try and push her off him.

"Fuck!" Fenrir snarled, clawing at her head with one hand as he fumbled for his wand with the other. "You conniving little bitch!"

She pulled away, spitting the mouthful of blood and flesh into his face and eyes. The house was compromised now because of him. Sophie couldn't damn well hide in the basement, and Mili wasn't here to help her quickly repair the door. Her heart pounded in her chest as Sophie scrambled backwards, summoning her wand with a voiceless _Accio_. She closed her fist around it when it flew into her hand and shut her eyes, picturing the back alley behind Borgin and Burkes.

He watched her disapparate while he attended to the gaping wound in his neck, beginning the process of stitching his throat back together. _Keep playing hard to get._ Fenrir ran his wand down the length of the injury, focused on repairing the severed artery. If anyone so much as thought about asking how he got yet another scar, he'd kill them. The last thing he wanted was Lestrange laughing and making jokes at his expense. _It'll only make things more enjoyable._

Fifteen hundred miles west, Sophie staggered up the rear steps of the shop, hands shaking from the adrenaline rush. She fumbled with the handle and pushed her way inside, heading straight for the stairs on her immediate left that led up into the flat. Blood was smeared across her mouth where she'd tried to wipe it away with her sleeve. Strings of muscle were caught between her teeth.

"Granddad?" Sophie called out, taking the steps one by one.

"I thought I told you to leave! Borgin, did I not tell her to leave?"

"I will be, soon as I clean up." Finally, she entered the flat, hair messy, robes stained dark red. "Just, um, had a bit of an accident."

"An accident." Caractacus turned to look up from the book in his lap, fixing his eyes on her. "Is that—Merlin's beard, what did you do, Sophie? It's not the full moon yet, is it? Your face—"

"I'm fine. Mili, can you draw me a bath, please?"

The house-elf apparated in front of her, cried "Yes, Mistress!", and subsequently disapparated.

"An accident?" Borgin queried, frowning at her. "Looks like you ate a deer."

"Not a deer, but if Greyback comes looking…"

"Sophie." Their combined tone of voice said if she lied, things would get ugly.

"I may have tried to kill Fenrir Greyback," she said, keeping her voice low, and chewing on her bottom lip. "Suffice to say he didn't appreciate me tearing his throat open. I know I should've finished the job, Granddad, but that curse—"

"You owe me twenty galleons, Caractacus." Borgin laughed. "A couple hours out of our sight and she picks a fight with a Death Eater!"

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Of course Borgin would turn it into a big bloody joke. "He started it."

"Mistress, the bath is ready!"

"Thank you, Mili."

"They're unforgivable curses for a reason, Sophie," Caractacus sighed. "Killing a person changes you."

"Greyback's an animal, not a person."

"Whatever he is, I think it's safe to say you've got his attention now. Your old broomstick's still in the cupboard, by the way. I'll keep watch tonight and we'll figure something out in the morning."

Sophie didn't want to say it out loud but her instincts said he'd be here before then. So long as she got to wash the taste of filth from her mouth and change into clean robes, Sophie would be ready and waiting for Greyback's arrival. After all, Moony had said Greyback taking offense at a small slight was why he'd been bitten, and she'd just tried to kill him. "I think it'd be better if you two stayed elsewhere tonight."

"Sweetheart, please. We're in the middle of Knockturn Alley. Aurors are everywhere."

"Yeah, well, Aurors being at the Tournament didn't stop Voldemort from returning, did they?"


	5. Chapter 5

She rinsed her mouth out thrice with herbs and water before the taste of Fenrir finally faded, though bitter traces of it still lingered in the back of her throat. Firmly gripping the sink with both hands, Sophie stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as if waiting for it to move.

Her lips were curled back in a snarl, sharp teeth bared; it'd taken her a few minutes to tease free every fibre of muscle tissue that remained but she'd done it. She'd scrubbed her skin raw and rid herself of him, of the feel of Greyback's claws pricking the skin of her neck and his weight pressing her into the ground.

The last thing she needed to deal with was the memory, but that would come later. Better to purge him from her mind than allow herself to entertain any kind of ridiculous notion. Easier too.

"Mistress?"

A growl escaped Sophie as she turned to face Mili, irises glinting gold each time they caught the candlelight. The house-elf didn't twitch even an ear in response. "Is he here?"

"No, Mistress. Master Caractacus asked me to give this to you." There was a small bottle in Mili's hands and she sat herself atop the clothes basket next to the basin, her bony legs dangling over the edge. "He said it would—"

Sophie snatched the potion free from the house-elf's grasp and threw it into the bathtub with one hand. The glass shattered on impact, black sludge oozing down towards the drain. Of all the things her grandfather could've given her, a wolfsbane potion was the least helpful. How many times would she have to tell him she didn't want it?

This curse wasn't something to be embraced. It was the bane of her life, the reason she rejected every man who so much as laid eyes on her. Since the world at large had made it clear werewolves had no place in wizard society, there was absolutely no reason to indulge herself and suffer the pain that came with revealing her 'lifestyle'.

"Tell Grandfather I appreciate his concern, but I don't need his aid."

"Mistress, the potion—"

 _I don't want to remember!_ The sound of ceramic cracking came from the sink when Sophie clenched her fists tight. Chips and fine white dust fell to the floor, slipping through the gaps between her fingers. "How long would it take you to fix a door, Mili?"

"Two minutes, Mistress."

"What about repairing the charms?"

"Longer. They're complicated, Mistress."

That much she knew. Sophie had once tried to follow what Mili did but the minute details of the enchantments were too difficult to understand. Better to leave it to the house-elf whose magic was reliable and secure than risk casting them herself. Her inexperience would only leave her free and vulnerable.

Slowly, she uncurled her fingers and lifted her hands from the basin. The few fragments that didn't fall free remained lodged in her skin, stained red with blood. It was strange but she hadn't felt them slice through her skin or embed themselves in her hands. Even now, the cuts stung no more than expected.

"When Greyback returns—"

It seemed so loud at first. The echoing sound of a bubble bursting, a body claiming space as it reformed. She turned instinctively to look to her right and saw nothing. In the seconds it took Sophie to swing her head back towards the bathroom door, warm blood splattered against her face and shoulders. The smell, fresh and ripe, filled the bathroom. A faint mewling sound ceased as quickly as it began.

Fenrir let the dead thing in his hands fall onto the tiled floor with no more regard for it than a dog had for a bone. He stepped towards Sophie, eyes fixed on the white cotton towel wrapped around her body. She looked to be naked beneath it, or wearing only her undergarments. A crueller man than him might've ripped it from her, bent Burke over and mounted her like a bitch right there, but that kind of fun would only earn him further ire with her. Instead, he allowed his eyes to follow the material down to the exposed skin of her upper thighs. Without robes, she had little to hide her form or conceal her from his sight.

The realisation of what just happened hit Sophie in two stages. First, her brain registered his presence and the blood on her face. Then her eyes took in the broken lifeless mass between them. Sophie let out a low whine that turned into a keen as her legs buckled beneath her. Her body followed, head tipped back mid-howl, knees crashing down against the tiles.

Fenrir flicked his tongue out and licked his lips at the sight of bare breasts bound tightly by the towel. A growl of approval escaped his throat and his gut grew heavier the longer Sophie knelt there. There were few sights he enjoyed more than a prone woman, willing or otherwise, and the things she could do in that position…Oh, what he wouldn't have given for her to look at him and beg him to take her, to ease her pain.

"Mili," Sophie murmured, letting herself flop forward. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, one hand covering her mouth, struggling to block out the delicious scent that made her mouth water. It was Mili lying there, the house-elf who'd been with her for so many years, not some deer carcass. "I'm sorry."

"You're not going to eat it, are you?" Greyback asked. He'd heard rumours about monstrous packs to the east who ate their dead. He didn't know in which form they partook their feast but the idea turned his stomach regardless. "If you're so hungry, why not just find your sweet Mr. Cole? I think he'd happily hand himself over to be a morning snack."

"You didn't have to kill her."

"No, I didn't." Yet he had, and it'd felt good. The sensation of bones shattering beneath his hands, flesh giving way to his claws. The sound of something dying as the air was forced from its lungs. Fenrir preferred to enjoy the small pleasures that came with killing rather than just the act itself. "But I chose to."

Bastard! She had to get away. Away from him, the shop, the smell. The taste of salt and rust sat heavy in her mouth, gut cramping with sudden pangs of hunger. This was all wrong. It wasn't time yet. She still had two days!

As if studying her, Fenrir tilted his head ever so slightly, eyebrows pinching together. If Burke was so hungry that a sack of bones was tempting, how long had it been since she last went hunting? He knew she chained herself, refused herself the pleasures of running wild, but did she starve herself too? Feeding after the transformation was the most natural thing for a werewolf made hungry by the act itself.

The shift, the change — whatever you called it — burned through every scrap of energy left in their human body, every reserve of stored fat. His own first few months had been rough till Fenrir realised that for himself.

"Enough," he growled. "Stop whining like a pup and get up. I thought you were going to kill me."

 _Slow heart, empty mind, visualise._ Sophie squeezed her eyes shut tighter, tuned out the sound of his voice and the pangs that wracked her stomach. There was only the damp stone, thick iron chains hanging from the wall, a faint smell of mildew in the air. Nothing mattered but the safety of the basement and the sensation of her body being—

_Pop!_

The chill of the air tickled her skin, goosebumps raising along the length of her arms. On her hands and knees, Sophie crawled towards the only safehaven she had left. As heavy and tight as the chains felt, she slipped one hand through a shackle and shut it around her wrist. Sophie braced herself against the wall, closing her eyes as her head came to rest atop her hands. The other shackle would be attached tomorrow before the full moon arrived the following day.

Though her towel was still draped awkwardly around her, Sophie made no effort to adjust it. The uneasy silence that'd fallen over the upstairs flat when Greyback arrived — where had her grandfather disappeared to? — plagued her. Fenrir had apparated directly into the bathroom too, and that in itself left a foul taste in her mouth. He should've found himself stuck in a wall, not behind Mili with such impeccable timing.

"You didn't have to kill her," she murmured. Bile rose in her throat at the minutes-old memory, scents melding together in her nostrils. Sophie hadn't paid much attention to it at the time but the stench that normally clung to Greyback wasn't present in the bathroom. There'd only been that of freshly drawn blood, sweat and something she couldn't quite name or place. "Why…Why did you have to kill her?"


	6. Chapter 6

No matter how many times she rubbed her nose against her arm, it still itched. The stone floor had made her skin sticky and damp with sweat while the iron chains chafed against her wrists and ankles. The cellar itself was a little humid despite being below ground level — the lack of ventilation meant it was an uncomfortable place to spend long periods of time in.

"Come on," she murmured, glancing up at the walls. It couldn't be too long till the full moon, could it? Sophie had managed to trick herself into falling asleep twice, as a means of passing the time, but now she found herself conscious again, regardless of whether she wanted to be or not. "I know you're up there."

Her body surged with restless energy, the need to be broken and reborn anew. Soon, she thought, the full moon would rise. With it, the change would happen and relief would come…if only for the span of a few hours. She'd still be bound and confined to the basement but Sophie wouldn't be human. Wouldn't have to smell the scent of blood on her clothes or feel the hatred that burned within her chest.

Or hear his footsteps two metres above her head. The wooden floorboards in the living room creaked, light sprinklings of dust falling onto the floor of the cellar as something — someone? — walked on them.

 _Merlin's beard._ With the door gone and the protective charms removed, the only thing between her and whatever lay upstairs was a square of solid timber. The wood weighed as much as an average wizard, if not more. Magic and brute strength were the only ways to lift it. Provided it (he) wasn't too intelligent, Sophie doubted the creature would notice where the hinged trapdoor sat in the corner of the kitchen.

She tracked every creak with her eyes, following the path of the creature that'd invaded her den. Each groan of the floorboards sent a shiver down her spine. Her heart beat faster and her legs tensed, toes scraping against the stone floor. Sophie's lips curled back in a snarl, nostrils flaring; like a cornered animal, she had every intention of fighting for her own survival. Despite how stupid her choices were, despite putting herself in this position, Sophie still had magic: the only weapon she couldn't lose.

It walked into the kitchen, circled twice, then returned to the living room. The thing stood almost directly above her, its breathing loud enough to be heard from where she lay. Sophie immediately stilled her body, holding her limbs in place so neither manacles nor chains made a sound.

It was him, wasn't it? There was no reason for anyone else to be this far north, and besides, the cottage itself was concealed from muggle eyes. Yes…it had to be him. Merlin's beard, whiskers and bloody arsehole! She'd served herself up like a piece of meat, naked and bound on a platter.

"So this is where you hide yourself."

Sophie's eyes darted from corner to corner at the sound of that voice. Where was he? The cellar was pitch black except for the thin slivers of light that filtered through the hatch. Shadows filled the corners, masking any shape that could've been him.

"I told you the pack grow restless."

The harsh baritone rasp of Fenrir's voice made fear lodge in her throat. It was one thing to face him in Knockturn Alley where they were on even footing, another entirely to face the monster in a situation Sophie had no means of escaping. Right now, disapparating wasn't in the cards with her limbs restrained and Fenrir near.

Quietly she inhaled, sniffing and tasting the air. His scent was most pungent if she angled her head to the right, but Fenrir wasn't necessarily in there with her. It could be his robes, a strand of hair or drop of blood. Sophie scrunched her face up, frowning as the putrid smell began to linger in her nose and mouth.

"Then kill me and get it over with, or are you too weak? It's what you always want. To sate your appetite for blood."

"Death would be boring. Predictable." An amused chuckle escaped his lips. Fenrir, a heavy black cloak draped over him to conceal his face and upper body, crossed his legs to keep them awake. From Burke's position, she likely only saw a black mass and nothing more. As much as he'd enjoy listening to her screams and cries if the pack tore her apart, there was no sense wasting a good werewolf. "Why ruin the fun when I could sit here and watch you turn?"

So it still wasn't time. "…How long then?"

The small clock Burke had in her kitchen said it was well past sunset, but outside, anyone with a set of eyes could see there was perpetual daylight. So too would anyone, even a muggle, notice two large wolves traipsing around among flowers and cloudberries. "A day."

That explained why her hips and shoulders ached. It wouldn't be long now. The moon only needed one more nudge towards fullness then as soon as it rose high enough, the change would begin. Wonderful, Sophie sighed. "Is that you up there?" she asked. "Walking around my home?"

"No." Fenrir drew his wand as if to cast Lumos but quickly tucked it back into his robes. He reached up and pushed the cloak back, letting it fall onto the floor. Slowly, he moved towards where he remembered Sophie to be. Blindly reaching out with his right hand, Fenrir found a chain stretching out from the wall and followed it down till it met the attached manacle that encircled her wrist. "I'm right here."

 _Marena curse him._ Sophie didn't know if he was lying or not. She could've waved her hands in front of her face and not noticed them. There was only one way to find out, but Sophie wasn't certain she wanted to invite danger into her life again.

"Then what's that?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Liar? Surely she could hear his heart beating, the blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs. Carefully he leaned down, sliding his right hand along the manacle till he found her own and laced his fingers between hers. "Am I?" Fenrir growled. "Are you so sure about that?"

With his left, he splayed his hand on her bare stomach. The scars were rough beneath his touch but Fenrir didn't recoil. He'd seen them once already in all their twisted, knotted beauty. They marred her body, yes, but were truly little more than decoration. A story of what it'd taken for her to find him.

"Get off."

"Oh, come." He dipped his thumb into the divot that was her belly button before dragging his fingers up towards the base of her rib cage. Fenrir then released her hand and gripped the heavy chain instead, shifting his weight onto it.

He leaned down as far as his bulk would allow, till Fenrir found his nose brushing against her earlobe. "You know as well as I do that you don't want me to stop."

"Bored now." Sophie turned her head away from him, towards the wall. "Piss off."

Now, how could she be bored when they'd not even started yet? "I can smell how ripe you are, how much you hunger for it," he whispered, skimming his fingers over her ribs. Her breathing grew heavy but controlled. Short, shallow gasps each time he touched her. "You crave to indulge yourself without consequence. Without fear of punishment."

Sophie tried to ignore the blossoming heat within her, the faint voice in the back of her mind that said it would be safe to transform here, far from muggle civilisation. Defying authority was a desire most people wanted to act upon, but so few ever did.

"Tell me, Burke, how many times have you imagined it? Running wild, shifting back, then being pinned against a tree and fucked so hard you can't walk straight for days."

She felt herself clench at the idea of it but still ignored him. Fenrir Greyback was little more than the embodiment of temptation. By now, Sophie knew better than to follow him. Years of watching from the shadows had shown her what happened to werewolves who turned wild. They were caught by dementors. Souls sucked out with a kiss.

Left to rot in Azkaban.

One kiss and a person became… _not_ a person.

Or one kiss against a tree and a woman became _alive_. The forest filled with noise, scents muddled by rain. Bark scraping her skin, legs tight around someone's waist, heat twisting and building in her belly, thighs slick with—

"I can't." She wanted to. Gods, she needed to. So many years of holding back, hiding what she was. Cowering in the corners as the Department of Magical Beasts announced they'd caught another oh-so-dangerous werewolf. Listening as Fenrir's name was spoken in hushed whispers for fear of someone offending him. "Find someone else to play your games with, you bastard."

She'd never felt the breeze in her fur, the mud on her paws. Blood coating her muzzle from a fresh kill. At least, not the nights she remembered. Sophie had locked herself away in this cellar for so many years that even the sight of the full moon had faded from memory. She knew what it was meant to look like, but that was more an abstract image than a solid thing in her mind.

"All this bravado and you're little more than a coward."

Cowardice kept her alive. Safe. She was still free, wasn't she? Better a cage of her own making than one built by wizards. "And you're a fool who's thrown his lot in with Voldemort for false hope and promises."

There was nothing to fear about a name or a wizard who hid in the shadows. 'He Who Must Not Be Named' was a half-dead old man traipsing around in a bathrobe, clinging to power he hadn't earned. If the famed Dumbledore could speak of him then so could she and every other wizard with a spine. Names held no more power than what someone gave them, and Sophie chose to believe Voldemort's carried none.

"Nothing good will ever come from helping that shrivelled mandrake return, Greyback."

"Maybe." Fenrir pushed himself up onto one knee and swung his right leg over Burke, straddling her in the dark. Reaching into his robes, he withdrew his wand again and held it over them both. " _Lumos._ "

The light was dim enough for one to see the other. He could see the outline of her shoulders, her throat, chest rising and falling with each breath. His fingers touching the base of her breastbone. Sophie's face was visible enough too and Fenrir imagined his own to be as well.

"You're still—" With one wave of his wand and a muttered spell, the stench seemed to fade. It was as if something wiped his body down from head to toe, stripping the dirt and leaving him clean. Even Fenrir's beard looked a little less ragged. "You're still disgusting on the inside."

"You should look in the mirror. All that talk about killing me. Ripping my heart out. Tearing my throat open. It's enough to make a man wish he had you for a mate."

"If wishes were galleons, we'd all be rich. Now get off." _Or don't._ His weight barely resting atop her, nails grazing the gap between her breasts…Sophie groaned and lifted her hips off the floor, as high as Fenrir's presence allowed.

Vesna, help her. He had to be aware of the effect his body had on her. That was why he persisted. Why he insisted on going round and round in circles, playing a game that would never end.

She squeezed her thighs together, an attempt to stem the wetness that pooled between them, and pulled her knees towards her chest.

"Say yes," he murmured. "Take what you want."

Take what she wanted? He'd like that, wouldn't he? She'd break every bone in his body and drag his corpse through Diagon Alley so everyone could see Fenrir Greyback was finished. Before his death, though, she'd mount him alright. Shove him down and mark every inch of his skin with her claws and teeth.

"Get off."

The hard way it was then. Fine. He could work with that. "It'd be best if you held on tight, Burke. We wouldn't want you to lose an arm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marena and Vesna are Slavic goddesses of winter/death and spring/fertility respectively.


	7. Chapter 7

Cold stone gave way to damp earth and trees. Sophie lowered her feet to the ground but decaying leaf litter and dirt made it almost impossible to gain traction. Instead of scrambling out from beneath Fenrir, she found herself stilled. The weight of his hands on her shoulders was enough to keep her in place, and the dead weight of the chains only aided him.

"Ah." Fenrir let out a contented sigh. He tapped his fingers lightly against her, nails pricking her skin and bringing beads of blood to the surface that swelled and broke. "Now this is much better than that musty cellar."

Was it? On the breeze, she could smell food…prey… _wizards_. Wherever they were, whatever forest surrounded them, it was close enough to society that Sophie could smell the remnants of their dinners on the wind. Hear the distant, soft patter of feet as something moved inside a home.

"You—" Sophie lifted her arm, ready to leave five deep gouges in his chest, but Fenrir was quicker. He seized her wrists, pinning her arms above her head. "You're going to kill them, aren't you?"

"Not me." He could see it in her eyes. Sophie knew what his next words would be, and everything he was planning. There was nothing like the first kill, the first taste of flesh, and hot blood bubbling up from beneath it. Or the screams of terror that rang out like some macabre melody, accompanying a glorious feast. "You will."

Gods help her, he was beyond delusional. Was it some egotistical power trip that made Greyback insist on embracing a false reality, or had years of drinking Wolfsbane potion affected him somehow? "And how will you ensure that?"

"You're a werewolf. Hunting and killing is in your nature." Once the full moon arrived, the slaughter would begin. All Fenrir had to do was wait. "Sooner or later, you'll shed blood. If not them, your grandfather and Borgin."

Greyback had another thing coming if that was what he thought. Dangling meat on a hook would never be enough to unleash the monster inside her, regardless of which form she took. With the help of Mili, she'd always ensured her hunger was sated. When Sophie's meal wasn't a wounded stag, the house elf would find the next best thing.

"It's in every wizard's nature," Sophie said. "Whether for potions, power or money, we can't help but kill."

If Burke understood the truth then why did she resist? Why fight him for so long, or at all? At any moment she could've stopped these ridiculous games and moved onto something much more fun. Fenrir huffed in exasperation, only to lift his right hand from her wrists and encircle her throat with his long fingers.

Sophie's chest rose and fell with every measured, careful breath she took. No matter how fast her heart pounded, she couldn't let the façade slip. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Not when _she_ was so close.

That beating, bleeding organ that kept Greyback alive sat inches from her hands, and all Sophie had to do was speak two words.

Just two.

She'd never tried such a spell without her wand, but the magic was right there. The tips of her fingers tingled with it. An unspoken power that all wizards had over life and death.

And it felt cold.

Like ice that burned your skin as you held it, clung to your hands and tore away pieces of yourself when you tried to remove it.

"What should we do about this then?" Fenrir said, interrupting her thoughts. He drew lazy circles with his thumb, fingers resting against the hollow of her neck. "It'd be a shame to see such needs go…unsatisfied."

She'd never seen the curse cast before, but the stories Sophie had heard mentioned a green light. If it were true, it seemed oddly ironic. The last colour someone saw before their death was typically associated with life.

"Ah—" Sophie swallowed the lump in her throat, even as the most intense cold she'd ever felt flooded her arm. Chasing it, however, was heat. Warmth that flushed her face, darkened her cheeks and stirred a throbbing ache she'd thought tempered. "I—"

He raised one eyebrow quizzically. "Yes, Miss Burke?"

Damn him. She dug her heel into the damp ground in search of purchase but found none. Her foot repeatedly slipped, as if even the forest were willing to betray her. Sophie groaned and raised her right leg, angling her foot upwards, ready to strike. "I am not going to be bent over and bred like some bitch in heat."

"Who said anything about bending you over?" In her mind she denied it, but her body desired it. Every sweep of his thumb across her skin made Sophie bite her bottom lip and worry it with her teeth, and the twitch of her hips said she was all but ready to yield to him. "There's no need to debase ourselves by rutting like dogs."

He said that as if the alternative were any better. Flat on her back, on the ground, in the middle of a forest? Or against a tree, legs hitched up around his waist like a back alley whore? No, thank you. She wasn't about to let him change the game and pull the carpet out from beneath her simply because something about the way he touched her felt _good_.

Instead, Sophie kicked out, only to find Fenrir's other hand caught her knee, forcing her right leg down.

"If I weren't in such a charitable mood," he murmured, "I'd be inclined to think you wanted it rough."

He had no idea how close to the truth he was…but once Fenrir was unleashed, there was no reining him in. No holding himself back long enough for it to become enjoyable. In all the years Sophie had worked in her grandfather's shop, she'd witnessed Greyback show restraint only once, and that'd been on the day they met.

"Or do you prefer it gentle?" His palm skimmed upwards, over the bare skin of her inner thigh. Sophie's eyes fluttered closed, her toes curled and the balls of her feet pressed against the earth. Her breathing quickened, becoming ragged and uneven when Fenrir's fingers slid dangerously close to the junction between her legs. "Slow."

His sleeves were coarse and itchy where they brushed against her skin. Dry and stiff too, like they hadn't been washed in who knew how long. But the smell of him…

What was wrong with her? This disgusting, murderous bastard had threatened to take everything from her yet there Sophie lay, thinking about his scent. His touch. His hand on her thigh, her throat. His fingers pressing deep inside her, stroking and teasing till she cried his name and sunk her teeth into his shoulder.

"Tell me to stop." A whisper in her ear. Hot breath on the side of her neck. Hands squeezing ever so gently, and then not so gently. If she opened her eyes, she would've seen the grin on his face. The absolute look of delight, and hunger. And he wanted her to. He wanted her to watch him, to reach up and tangle her fingers in his hair, pull as if she were strong enough to control him. "Make me stop."

"No." Sophie's lips parted at the feeling of his teeth grazing over the pulsing artery in her throat. His fingers drifted slowly up to her jaw, and sure enough his thumb found her bottom lip. Swept along the length of it, up and across her top lip. His other thumb did the same, gliding upward till he brushed over that oh so sweet spot and her hips bucked against him. "Fu—"

"It's no fun if you don't resist."

That was what he wanted? Her to push back? They'd been doing this dance for so long it shouldn't have come as a surprise when she thought about it. He was the monster that skulked in the shadows and heeded his base instincts, after all. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared up at him. An inhuman look of unforgiving hunger stared back, made worse by the scars that twisted his face.

"Fight me."

" _No_."

Surely he understood their little game by now. He desired victims and she control. She wasn't someone he could scare into submission, or chase down a dark laneway. The terror he instilled in others didn't have any effect on her for the most part. It was only when Fenrir was at his worst that Sophie genuinely felt something akin to fear.

"Why not?" Fenrir increased the pressure on his downstroke, drawing a long, low growl from Sophie. Her right hand closed around his wrist, squeezing as if to crush his bones, but he swept his thumb up once more. This time she snarled. "Every werewolf within a mile can smell how wet you are. Give them a chance and they'd line up to taste it."

"I'm sure they'd try." Sophie angled her body up and gripped the meat of his neck for leverage, holding herself precariously off the ground. Now she had no more hands free unless she let his go. "But you'd kill them all, wouldn't you?"

"Yes." As strong as her grip was, Fenrir found himself able to push his hand closer. He pressed down hard with his palm, following the curve of her leg with his hand, till his fingers found that slick, sticky mess. "And once I did, I'd take you."

Shit. She let herself fall, back slapping against the forest floor, and grasped his wrist with both hands. Every inch of her was on fire, throbbing with the need for him to do exactly what he said. Still, Sophie grit her teeth and strained to push his hand away, his thumb dragging over her when she did.

"Look me in the eye." As he spoke, her grip on his wrist loosened just enough for him to break what little control she had left. Fenrir released her jaw, planted both hands on her legs and spread them apart. "Say you wouldn't enjoy it."

"I told you already," she hissed. Sophie sat up and caught his bottom lip between her teeth, wound his hair around her fingers then tugged his head back. "I'm not yours to take."

"No?" He caught her gaze. Her heated, angry glare that sent a shiver down Fenrir's spine and made him ache. It promised violence and pain, and so much pleasure. "Yet you're so… _Oh_."

"Yes."

She nipped his bottom lip, sharp enough to draw blood, then planted her free hand on his chest. He let her push him till Fenrir's back was against the ground and Sophie stared down at him. Finally, _finally_ , he'd shut up. Sophie lowered herself down till her chest was almost crushed against him, and captured his lips with her own. She kissed him slowly, firmly. Kissed him while a faint red light grew within her fingers.

He tugged her forward, even as she whispered _Crucio_ against his lips and his body jerked, wracked by agony. Still, Sophie twisted her hand in his hair, lifted his head higher for another kiss. This time it was harder. Rougher. Her false pretenses fell away.

Then she shoved his head down against her thigh. His tongue flicked out, lapping up the arousal smeared there till she moved his attention to the other. Fenrir strained to look up and catch the excitement in her eyes, but the scent was unmistakable. Her heat, her need, her unrepentant hunger — it flooded his senses and drew a possessive growl from deep within him.

Her flesh yielded to his mouth when she finally shifted his focus to where she wanted it. Fenrir adjusted himself without pause and forced her legs over his shoulders, tipping her back to lay against him.

"Mm." Her claws raked his scalp, thighs squeezing his head with each lick of his tongue. Every brush of his nose over that sensitive bud made her back arch, and for a moment there was nothing but him. The sensation of his mouth, his hands; everything coalescing into one overwhelming burst of—

Fenrir sat bolt upright, head snapping left and right as he sniffed. Death traveled on the wind, old and decrepit yet alive.

"What is that?" she asked. Sophie slipped her legs off his shoulders and pushed herself up into a crouch, staring at the surrounding trees. The scent didn't belong to a werewolf, or a wizard; it was marred by an absence too, a lack of…something. On any other night, she'd have called it a dementor — their lack of soul made them smell _odd_ — but they were busy with their own hunt. "Fenrir?"

This thing, whatever it was, made her stomach twist in revulsion and stirred her instinct for self-preservation. Every shred of fear she'd ever felt was growing, merging into dread and settling in the pit of her stomach. All the while, Sophie thrust her hand out in the direction of safety, towards the scent of home and hearth.

After a few uneasy heartbeats, a set of robes burst out of the trees just as that foul stench grew stronger. She slipped them on without pause and stepped forward, shifting her weight onto her right leg. Whatever it was, Sophie planned to meet it head on. If necessary, kill it.

She glanced to her left and watched Fenrir suddenly drop to one knee, head bowed, as something stepped out from the tree line. _Damn him_. Fenrir had known exactly what was coming, or rather who, and he'd not said a word.

"Stand, Greyback."

The dog did as he was told.

"…I see you have company." Scarlet eyes, with cat-like pupils, peered out from beneath pale white eyelids. The thin figure never shifted its attention from Fenrir, but Sophie didn't doubt it would notice the slightest movement. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, my Lord."

"Perhaps I am. You are to be recruiting werewolves, are you not? Gathering your kind? Yet here stands only one."

One? There was no mark on her skin, no brand, yet this aberration presumed to know where she stood. She took a half step forward only to find Fenrir's hand on her stomach, stopping her.

"The full moon is tomorrow, master. The rest will arrive then."

"See to it they do, or Lestrange will come in my stead."

Fenrir bowed his head and said nothing more. He glanced at Sophie, jaw and fists clenched, body tense as if she were ready to burst forward at any moment. Merlin's beard, that ego of hers would get them both killed.

"And Greyback?"

The creature's arm lifted. Grasped between three fingers was a wand.

Sophie didn't wait to see the spell, if it were cast at all. She flicked her fingers up, focusing on the size and curvature of the _Protego_ shield, stretching it to cover them both. Why she bothered with Greyback, Sophie couldn't say, but instinct drove her on, not logic.

Almost immediately, those thin, pallid lips twisted up into some approximation of amusement as nothing more than a faint ball of light erupted from his wand.

"Raise a hand in my presence again, Miss Burke," he rasped, "and I will bring you to heel."

 _A legilimens on a level I've never seen before. Five minutes and he'd know everything. Those were Granddad's words._ The curse remained unspoken on her lips while the shield began to dissipate.

"Despite your second nature," the soulless monstrosity spat the words out as if they were a foul taste in his mouth, "you could earn yourself a place among my followers. I have other uses for werewolves beyond hunting."

Then he was gone.

As silently as that abomination arrived, it vanished, and the taut string within Sophie snapped. Short fur erupted down the back of her neck, claws extending and tapering to a point while her skin and muscles rippled in preparation. Sophie shoved Fenrir's arm down only to round on him, grabbing the collar of his robes with one hand. "I will not be threatened by some walking corpse."

This close to the full moon, everything simmered beneath the surface. A werewolf couldn't transform but they certainly came close, and she was… _savage_. Fenrir seized her by the hips, pressing her against him before he lowered his hands to Sophie's rump and hefted her up. "Pick a tree."

"No."

"Then where?"

"Enough."

"I can still smell you," he whispered into her ear. "I know how close you are. How much there is for me to lick up. Lift these robes and I'll fuck you till you're howling my name."

"Another time, Fenrir." As true as his words were — she could feel the heat blooming in her belly again — her stomach still twisted in disgust at the stench of _him_. "When your new friend isn't around."


	8. Chapter 8

Bark cracked and split beneath Fenrir's claws as he raked them across the trunk of the tree he leaned against. He'd since ceased hearing Sophie's voice, but every now and again, a curse erupted from her fingertips. Branches shattered, leaves fell and another layer of dust coated his robes. Eventually, he closed his eyes as well, completely blocking out everything but the leaf that'd landed atop his head.

If she truly wanted no part in what was coming, Burke could always run and hide. Though no loose end, or dissonant voice, could be allowed to exist while the Dark Lord gathered his forces. Besides, she knew his voice now. His face.

His _scent_.

If the Dark Lord travelled on foot, or by way of a broom, he could be tracked and found. Followed for as long as he breathed. And supposing that information ever fell into the wrong hands, or a werewolf turned against their pack, Voldemort became vulnerable.

"I told you—"

Was she looking at him, Fenrir wondered. Had Burke realised he wasn't listening? No matter what words came from her mouth, he could assure her that they'd been spoken countless times by countless women before her.

In that regard, Sophie wasn't unique. Every witch that crossed his threshold thought themselves important, deluded themselves into believing they were his first. Embraced the notion they were irreplaceable. And subsequently, all discovered that they were, in fact, _not_.

One only had to look at the scars on his chest, his back — stroll through a graveyard on an isolated plot of land far to the north — to find proof of their predecessors.

"You've paced enough," he finally snapped. Although he could tune out her voice, the sound of the iron chains dragging along the ground and clinking against her bracelets grated on his ears. Metal striking metal, grinding and squealing every time Burke took a step. "Sit down or stand still."

Any other man would've disapparated and returned her to that dank cesspit she called a cellar, but he had no such desire. The Dark Lord's arrival had placed Burke in an impossible position, and Fenrir wanted to see her squirm. See her _brought to heel_.

Because if her new master couldn't break her then Lestrange surely would.

There would be so many screams. So much blood. Curse after curse, empowered by a bottomless well of hatred. That was what awaited Burke if she refused to bend her knee to the wizard who would return werewolves to their rightful place.

"You still think I'm going to stay?"

"I don't think you have a choice." Fenrir reached out and seized the chain that dangled from her right wrist. Had she forgotten he was the one who'd brought her here? She could kick and bite if she wanted, scream as loud as she liked, but no one would come. "You have no wand," he said. "No _clothes_."

At that, Fenrir grasped her robes with his other hand and sliced the front to ribbons with his claws. They split in half, falling to either side of her body. Once again those scars drew his gaze, and he followed the line of one back up towards her pert breasts. Despite the horrific injuries dealt to her, Sophie carried herself like a pureblood.

"Certainly no allies."

Oh, certainly. He'd killed her house elf after all, disapparated and taken her to a forest, then watched as she was threatened by Voldemort himself.

"I still have you. Violent, disgraced Fenrir." She stepped as close as she dared, her face mere inches from his. Coming so close to Greyback was akin to tempting fate, yet it felt no different to looking in the mirror. Every morning she saw that same look in her own eyes, the same base desires. "Savage, hungry Fenrir."

"You can't ply me with fondness." His other hand closed around her left wrist, drawing her arm forward along with the rest of her. Their limbs were trapped between them now, but it stopped her from trying any spells. "Or cruel things in my ears. I've heard them all before."

"Really?" asked Sophie. "Then why is your heart beating faster?" It echoed in her ears like a drumbeat. "Could it be…fondness?"

Or her hand and claws pressing against his thigh? Fenrir was the one who'd brought them together, but if he couldn't handle something so small as a distraction then perhaps he wasn't quite as inhuman as he pretended to be. Maybe he truly was more man than animal, and this entire scheme of his was just a charade.

"Are you fond of me, Fenrir Greyback?" She already knew the answer to that question. It showed in the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, in his secure yet oddly gentle grip. "Is that why you let me mount you like a broom?"

As she spoke, he licked his lips slowly, sweeping his tongue from right to left and back again. Surely Burke had to understand it was nothing to do with her. Not truly. His body responded as any man's would, and the fire in his blood stirred just the same. Any woman could stand bare before him, smelling riper than a peach orchard, and find themselves prone if he was bored enough.

The odd thing was, Fenrir's heart didn't beat faster. Rarely ever did something excite him enough for it to pound wildly. So if it wasn't his, or hers, then who else lurked in the forest? Whose unlucky eyes had fallen upon them?

"We're being watched," he said, all too casually. "And whomever it is has seen both you and I together."

"How do you know that?"

"Because it's not my heart you're hearing."

"Liar."

He lifted their hands and pressed her palm against his chest. Fenrir's pulse was as steady as ever, despite the touch of her hand against his leg, and the words that lingered in his mind. _But you'd kill them all, wouldn't you?_

If Burke wanted to see monstrous, abhorrent Fenrir, then she need only watch. He angled his head into the breeze and sniffed, tilting this way and that till the scent and sound were strongest. Whoever's heart pounded in his ears could be found east, close to the pack's makeshift encampment. "It seems you finally got your wish."

"And what would that be?"

"A dead trespasser." If it were one of his lieutenants, perhaps he'd simply pluck their left eye out. Make them kneel before the pack as he did to remind everyone of exactly what punishments awaited them should they cross their Alpha.

"At least wait till their intentions are clear."

Intentions? What did those matter when someone was close enough to spy on them? "My word is law. I know that means nothing to you but to the pack, it matters. If I tell them to stay, they sit and wait. They don't move unless I command it."

So they were here already then, yet his words to Voldemort…

The rest will arrive tomorrow, Greyback had said. Oh, stupid _stupid_ her. The last thing Sophie wanted was to be drawn into his pack's politics. He could squabble with them himself, bark orders all he liked, and she wouldn't say a word against him.

But she couldn't sit idly by and watch him potentially kill a child over something as small as curiosity. "You can't see them, and they can't see you. Ignore it."

"I gave them an order and I expected it to be followed."

That was all well and good, but they were werewolves, not soldiers. Greyback had assembled a group of restless, itching people on the cusp of a full moon. Getting them to sit idle was a feat more difficult to accomplish than silencing a mandrake; their skin crawled with the need to run, bones ached with the desire to be broken and reformed beneath the moonlight.

"Then ask yourself what happens if you let go of these chains."

"Who said anything about doing that?" He'd drag her there if he had to, or throw her over his shoulder. Did she take him for a fool? The moment he turned his back on Burke, she'd either take the opportunity to cast a spell or disapparate. "For someone who has no interest in running free, you're awfully intent on putting your nose where it doesn't belong."

"As opposed to you?"

Maybe it was the light, or the shadows, but something in Fenrir's eyes shifted. That normally exciting gaze turned foreboding. She felt her feet slide over the dirt as he moved her, the metal cuffs dig into her wrists as he suddenly hauled her towards a tree. Her back crashed into its trunk, then the rest of her body followed.

Blinding pain seared through her spine upon impact, and her legs and shoulders. Sophie's arms lifted as her chains were secured around two branches. Surely he was kidding, right? "I wouldn't if I were you."

"Wouldn't what?" Fenrir snapped. She had to realise the situation she was in. How far her tendency towards antagonism had pushed him. "At least now you're bound again, aren't you? That's what you wanted."

If Burke wanted to press her luck, she was more than welcome to. There were so many other things he could do to her with his teeth and claws, but only one of them would find pleasure in such actions.

"Be a good bitch and I might let you down tonight." If not, she could scream and yell, and waste her breath on unanswered prayers to her gods. "Or you can stay there till tomorrow night, and we'll see how cooperative you are then."

But who said she'd let _him_ go? Try as she might, there was no suppressing the smile on her face as Sophie wrapped her legs around his waist. She'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't end up in this position, yet circumstances called for an improvised approach. Her ankles crossed behind him and Sophie squeezed as tightly as she could to hold Greyback in place.

"I'm getting tired of your games," Fenrir sighed. He reached behind himself, seized her ankles and forced them apart. "And your contradictions. Which is it, Sophie? Do you wish to kill me or _fuck_ me? Are you chained or free?"

Both. Neither. Whatever the third option was. She'd never asked for him to come into her life and complicate it, but here Fenrir was: a sanctimonious bastard of a werewolf, beautiful in all his monstrosity and abhorrence. And not once had he spoken of money, or the future, or _marriage_.

Instead, he whispered ideas of freedom in her ears. He spoke of the wind in his fur, blood on his paws; of heat, desire, and death. Fenrir teased her with notions that weren't written on any scroll, dreams not bound to the pages of a book. A life without limits if only she opened her eyes.

Yet these things all came with a cost. Her name, her soul, her heritage — everything would have to be forsaken to attain them, because a werewolf could not be truly free when it lived within the confines of brick and stone. Nor while it heeded the laws of those who would punish it for something beyond its control.

"Tell me," Sophie murmured, lifting her gaze to the canopy above them. A shiver ran through her body as moonlight swept across her skin. The leaves and branches blocked out most of it, but enough pierced through to illuminate their surroundings. "What does it feel like?"

"Heaven." A hint of longing filled her voice. Sentiment for something lost or forgotten. Greyback's eyebrows pinched together in confusion as her grip on his waist loosened. He released her legs as they lowered to the ground, and withdrew out of kicking range. "Hell."

Among their kind, the freedom Burke craved had another name.

 _Exile_.

Ever since the progenitor — the first of them — wrestled with magic he couldn't control and bound himself to the moon, werewolves had been feared by wizards and pushed to the outskirts of society. For centuries now, they'd fended for themselves because those who despised and hated their kind ignored a singular truth: one could not exist without the other.


End file.
